Harkat and I discussed the panther’s retreat in whispers. I thought the panther had sensed a trap and wouldn’t return. Harkat disagreed. He said it would come back. If we withdrew further, it might advance fully the next time. So we wriggled backwards, not stopping until we were almost at the end of the long stretch of bush. From here we could only vaguely see the deer.
A couple of hours passed. We said nothing. I was about to break the silence and suggest we were wasting our time, when I heard a large animal moving. The deer was jumping around wildly. There was a throaty growl. It came from the far side of the pit. That was great—if the panther attacked the deer from there, it might fall straight into our trap and be killed in the pit. Then we wouldn’t have to fight it at all!
I heard twigs snap as the panther crept up on the deer. Then there was a loud snapping sound as a heavy body crashed through the covering over the pit and landed heavily on the stakes we’d set in the bottom. There was a ferocious howl, followed by silence.
Harkat slowly got to his feet and stared over the bush at the pit. I stood and stared with him. We glanced at each other. I said uncertainly, “It worked.”
“You sound like you didn’t … expect it to,” Harkat grinned.
“I didn’t,” I laughed, and started towards the pit.
“Careful,” Harkat warned. “It could still be alive.”
Stepping in front of me, he moved off to the left and signalled for me to go right. Raising my knife, I circled away from Harkat, then we slowly closed on the pit from opposite directions.
Harkat was a few steps ahead of me, so he saw into the pit first. He stopped, confused. A couple of seconds later, I saw why. A body lay impaled on the stakes, blood dripping from its many puncture wounds. But it wasn’t the body of a panther—it was a red baboon.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “That was a panther’s growl, not a monkey’s.”
“But how did…” Harkat stopped and gasped. “The monkey’s throat! It’s been ripped open! The panther must –”
He got no further. There was a blur of movement in the upper branches of the tree closest to me. Whirling, I caught a very brief glimpse of a long, thick, pure black object flying through the air with outstretched claws and gaping jaws—then the panther was upon me, roaring triumphantly.
Death was on the cards that day.
Six months earlier.
THE WALK up the tunnels, coming off the back of our battle with the vampaneze, was slow and exhausting. We left Mr Crepsley’s charred bones in the pit where he’d fallen. I’d meant to bury him, but I hadn’t the heart for it. Steve’s revelation – that he was the Lord of the Vampaneze – had floored me, and now nothing seemed to matter. My closest friend had been killed. My world had been torn asunder. I didn’t care whether I lived or died.
Harkat and Debbie walked beside me, Vancha and Alice Burgess slightly in front. Debbie used to be my girlfriend, but now she was a grown woman, whereas I was stuck in the body of a teenager—the curse of being a half-vampire who only aged one year for every five that passed. Alice was a police chief inspector. Vancha had kidnapped her when we’d been surrounded by police. She and Debbie had taken part in the fight with the vampaneze. They’d both fought well. A shame it had been for nothing.
We’d told Alice and Debbie all about the War of the Scars. Vampires exist, but not the murderous monsters of myth. We don’t kill when we feed. But other night creatures do—the vampaneze. They broke away from the vampires six hundred years ago. They always drain their victims dry. Their skin has turned purple over the centuries, and their eyes and fingernails are red.
For a long time there’d been peace between the two clans. That ended when the Lord of the Vampaneze emerged. This vampaneze leader was destined to lead them into war against the vampires and destroy us. But if we found and killed him before he became a full-vampaneze, the war would go our way instead.
Only three vampires could hunt for the Vampaneze Lord (according to a powerful meddler called Desmond Tiny, who could see into the future). Two were Vampire Princes, Vancha March and me. The other had been Mr Crepsley, the vampire who’d blooded me and been like a father to me. He’d faced the person we thought was the Vampaneze Lord earlier that night and killed him. But then Steve sent Mr Crepsley tumbling to his death in a pit of flame-tipped stakes—shortly before he let me know that the person Mr Crepsley killed was an impostor, and that Steve himself was the Vampaneze Lord.
It didn’t seem possible that Mr Crepsley was dead. I kept expecting a tap on my shoulder, and the tall orange-haired vampire to be standing behind me when I turned, grinning wickedly, his long facial scar glinting as he held up a torch, asking where we thought we were going without him. But the tap never came. It couldn’t. Mr Crepsley was dead. He’d never come back.
Part of me wanted to go mad with rage, seize a sword and storm off after Steve. I wanted to track him down and drive a stake through his rotten excuse for a heart. But Mr Crepsley had warned me not to devote myself to revenge. He said it would warp and destroy me if I gave in to it. I knew in my soul that there was unfinished business between Steve and me, that our paths would cross again. But for the time being I pushed him from my thoughts and mourned for Mr Crepsley.
Except I couldn’t really mourn. Tears wouldn’t come. As much as I wanted to howl and sob with grief, my eyes remained dry and steely. Inside, I was a broken, weeping wreck, but on the outside I was cold, calm and collected, as though I hadn’t been affected by the vampire’s death.
Ahead, Vancha and Alice came to a halt. The Prince looked back, his wide eyes red from crying. He looked pitiful in his animal skins, with his filthy bare feet and wild hair, like an overgrown, lost child. “We’re almost at the surface,” he croaked. “It’s still day. Will we wait here for dark? If we’re spotted…”
“Don’t care,” I mumbled.
“I don’t want to stay here,” Debbie sobbed. “These tunnels are cruel.”
“And I have to inform my people that I’m alive,” Alice said, then frowned and picked dried blood flecks from her pale white hair. “Though I don’t know how I’m going to explain it to them!”
“Tell the truth,” Vancha grunted.
The Chief Inspector grimaced. “Hardly! I’ll have to think up some –” She stopped. A figure had appeared out of the darkness ahead of us, blocking the path.
Cursing, Vancha ripped loose a shuriken – throwing stars he kept strapped in belts around his chest – and prepared to launch it.
“Peace, Vancha,” the stranger said, raising a hand. “I am here to help, not harm.”
Vancha lowered his shuriken and muttered in disbelief, “Evanna?”
The woman ahead of us clicked her fingers and a torch flared into life overhead, revealing the ugly witch we’d travelled with earlier in the year, while we were searching for the Lord of the Vampaneze. She hadn’t changed. Short thick muscles, long untidy hair, pointed ears, a tiny nose, one brown eye and one green (the colours kept shifting from left to right), hairy body, long sharp nails and yellow ropes tied tight around her body instead of clothes.
“What are you doing … here?” Harkat asked, his large green eyes filled with suspicion—Evanna was a neutral in the War of the Scars, but could help or hinder those on either side, depending on her mood.
“I